Michael Scott - The Necromancer

And none of those who heard it-Elder, Next Generation or immortal human-were surprised. There was only one price for failure, and Dr. John Dee had failed spectacularly.

“T here have been worse days,” Dr. John Dee said, though he couldn’t remember when.

Following the disaster at Stonehenge and the twins’ escape through the leygate, the Magician had spent the remainder of the night and the early part of the following day in the tumbled ruins of the barn where, only a few hours previously, Flamel and the twins had been hiding out. Helicopters buzzed overhead and police and ambulance sirens howled along the nearby A344. When all the police activity had finally died away in the early afternoon, Dee had left the barn and started walking toward London, keeping to the back roads. Beneath his coat, wrapped in a ragged cloth, he carried the single stone sword that had once been two, Clarent and Excalibur. It throbbed and pulsed against his skin like a beating heart.

There was little or no traffic on the narrow country lanes, and he was just beginning to think that he would have to steal a car in the next town or village he came to, when an elderly vicar in an equally ancient Morris Minor stopped and offered him a lift.

“You’re lucky I came along,” the old man said in a crackling Welsh accent. “Not many people use these side roads now, with the motorway so close.”

“My car broke down, and I need to get back into London for a meeting,” Dee said. “I got a bit lost,” he added, consciously shifting his accent to match the vicar’s.

“I can take you. I’m glad of the company,” the white-haired man admitted. “I’ve been listening to the radio-and all this talk about the security scare was making me nervous.”

“What’s happened?” Dee asked, keeping his voice light and casual. “I thought there was a lot of police activity.”

“Where have you been for the past twelve hours?” the vicar asked with a grin that shifted the false teeth in his mouth.

“Busy,” Dee said. “Met up with some old friends; we’d a lot of catching up to do.”

“Then you missed all the excitement…”

Dee kept his face expressionless.

“A major security operation closed down the city yesterday. The BBC were reporting that the same terrorist cell that had been operating in Paris were now in London.” Gripping the big steering wheel tightly, he glanced at his passenger. “You did hear about what happened in Paris?”

“I read all about it,” the Magician murmured, unconsciously shaking his head. Machiavelli controlled Paris-how could he have let Flamel and the twins slip through the net?

“These are dangerous times.”

“They are indeed,” Dee said. “But you would not want to believe everything you read in the press,” he added.

There were roadblocks in place on all the major roads leading into the capital, but the police barely glanced at the battered car carrying the two older men before waving it through.

The vicar dropped Dee in Mayfair in the heart of the city, and the doctor walked down to Green Park Station. He caught the tube on the Jubilee Line, and took it right into the heart of Canary Wharf, where Enoch Enterprises had its UK headquarters. The doctor was taking a calculated gamble. His Dark Elder master might have the building under observation, but Dee was hoping everyone would think he had run away and wouldn’t be so foolish as to return to his own headquarters.

Entering unseen through the underground parking garage, he made his way up to his offices at the top of the building, where he took a long luxurious shower in his private bathroom, washing away the grime and filth of the past few hours. The hot water eased the pain in his right shoulder, which he rotated carefully. Josh had flung Clarent at him during the battle at the barn, and although Dee had managed to turn his aura into a shield before the stone sword hit him, the force of the blow had driven him to the ground. He’d been sure he had dislocated it; only later had he realized that his shoulder was badly bruised but not broken, and for that he was grateful. A break wasn’t serious-his enhanced metabolism would work quickly to repair any damage, or he could use a little of his aura to repair it instantly, but that would draw the Dark Elders and their minions to him.

The Magician changed into fresh clothes, a nondescript dark blue two-piece suit, a dark blue shirt and a tie with the discreet gold pattern of the fleur-de-lis of St. John’s College, Cambridge. While the kettle in the tiny kitchen boiled water for tea, Dee emptied his safe, stuffing wads of sterling, euros and dollars into a money belt he wore around his waist, hidden under his shirt. There were a dozen passports in as many names at the back of the safe. Dee shoved them into his suit coat pockets. He had been collecting these passports for years and wasn’t about to abandon them now.

The kettle boiled and the Magician made himself a cup of Earl Gray. Sipping the perfumed tea, he finally turned to look at the rag-wrapped bundle on his desk. A rare smile curled his lips. He might have lost the battle, but he had certainly come away with the greatest prize.

Clarent and Excalibur. Together. Yesterday, he had held them in his hands and watched as the two swords had fused together to create a single stone sword.

Even from across the room, Dee could feel the power radiating from the object in long slow waves. If he lowered his guard, he caught the vaguest hints of whispered thoughts in countless languages, only some of which he recognized.

He suddenly realized-almost with surprise-that finally, after a lifetime of searching, he finally had the four ancient Swords of Power. Two-Durendal and Joyeuse-were hidden in his private apartments in San Francisco, and the remaining two were here on the table before him… or was it now one? And what would happen, he wondered, if he brought this sword in contact with the other two stone swords? And why had they never fused together? They’d been side by side for centuries.

The doctor took his time finishing the tea, calming his thoughts and putting protective barriers in place before he approached the bundle and unwrapped it. Some magicians used combinations of words-spells and cantrips-to shield their thoughts, but Dee used the oldest of all magical sounds: music. Staring at the desk, he started to hum “Greensleeves,” Queen Elizabeth I’s favorite song. The Queen believed that it had been written by her father, Henry VIII, for her mother, Anne Boleyn. It was a tale Dee knew wasn’t true, but he’d never had the heart to tell her. Regardless, its simple tune and ancient rhythm created a perfect protective spell. Murmuring the words aloud, he approached the desk.

“Alas, my love, ye do me wrong to cast me off discourteously…”

There was a definite tremble in his fingers as he carefully peeled away the filthy gray cloth he’d found in the ruined barn, revealing the object it concealed.

“And I have loved you so long, delighting in your companie…”

Lying on the polished black marble desk was one of the oldest objects on the planet. It looked like a simple stone sword, but it was more, much, much more. These twin weapons melded together were said to predate the Elders and even the Archons, belonging to the mythical Time Before Time. Famously, Arthur had carried Excalibur, and Mordred, his son, had slain him with Clarent, but the King and the Coward had been merely two of the generations of heroes and villains who had wielded these blades, which had been present, either individually or collectively, at every major event in the history of the earth.

“Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold…”